Young Writers discussion

Please be totally, brutally honest - what do you think of this story? Because I don't know myself. I don't even know where it came from, I just started writing.

Paper Boat.

Charlie didn’t notice the rising current of the brown river, threatening to sweep away the uneven tree trunk stretched across the middle of the river. His only concern lay in the miniature paper boat wedged between the rough branches, leaves and rocks underneath the log, its branches reached out like spindly arms. The boats little red flag fluttering helplessly in the wind. He could almost make out the words written in runny blue ink, etched across the paper in perfect lines. He already knew what they said. He read them over and over since the day It happened, and the words stuck to his brain like a bad memory that never unsticks.
Charlie stood in a muddy patch between shoots of long, pale grass. He lifted his muddy boots up one after the other, marching in place, so the mud wouldn’t suck him up whole. It made satisfying squelching noises. Charlie didn’t notice. He brushed away the hair that fell into his eyes and clopped his boots forward towards the riverbank.
The forest on the other side seemed dark and luring, a black hole against the pale sky. On Charlies side, pale brown grass stretched from every direction, ending only when it reached the orange farm house and road. He wondered if he was just imagining the small, shadowy figures standing behind the fence. Was that the shape of his fathers’ favourite hat? Is that his mother skirt, flowing gently in the wind? He knew it couldn’t be. It never would be, not anymore.

Charlie turned his back to the mirages in the distance – were they mirages? – and crouched down, squinting to see up the river. His little boat continued to bob up and down, fighting to let loose of the branches grasp. Panic flooded his chest as a twig snagged onto the paper boats sail, tearing a hole in the fragile material. Slowly but urgently, Charlie hopped towards the log.
The log seemed big enough to hold him and he considered crawling on his knees across. He would only have to reach out to the boat and snatch it before the waves dragged it beneath them. Slowly, he stepped into the shallow pools of the river. Little ringlets formed around his green boots. Tadpoles dispersed as he disrupted the mud beneath, sandy brown clouds making the water murky. Careful not to slip on the slimy film of algae covering the rocks, Charlie waded out into the river, staying close to the bank, until the rivers surface just reached the top of his boots. The strong current pushed at Charlies legs and he leaned forward, walking against it until he reached the log.

The log wobbled as he carefully swung himself over it. Mud splashed his face. He gasped as a splinter of wood pierced his knee. A trickle of blood traced a path down his leg. The boat bobbed up and down, its red flag soaked and weighted down, drooped onto the sails. Charlie gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain that seared down his leg as he propped himself up on his hands and knees. The log tilted and Charlies right boot dipped into the deep end of the river. Panic surged through him, paralyzing him. His hands shook. He held his breath and shut his eyes. Orange and purple dots played across his eyelids and flashes of It hummed in his mind. The bent railings. A crowded bridge over the flooded ditch. Flashing red and blue. Rain-streaked windows. Ripples of water where the car—Charlie opened his eyes. A shaky breath escaped his lips. A sob bubbled in his stomach. He gritted his teeth and inched forward, the boat coming closer in view. Tires screeching. People murmuring. Shovels toiling. Grandma whispering. Everything’s fine. Black hearses and two coffins, black bow ties and two holes. Everything’s fine. The little paper boat was right beneath him. The tip of his boot skimmed the top of the paper. A jumble of word not yet ruined by the water, bold and blue stood out clear. We’ll be back tomorrow. The words cut like a knife through Charlie’s memories and they tumbled down and out into the open. Charlie grasped the log, the damp bark scraping his skin. Brown wooden flesh dug under his nail-bitten fingertips.

I’m sorry, the men in uniforms said, their hats clutched in their still hands. They shook their heads. They shook Grandmas hand. Charlie leaned down on the log, his chest flat and his check pressed against the bark. Charlie reached his arm towards the boat, using two of his fingers like scissors to pick at the boat’s sails. A gushing surge of water pushed the boat forward, and he shifted his weight to the side, his hand fully immersed in the rolling waves. With a grunt, he grabbed the paper boat, clutching its sails, its red flag. Another spray of water splashed his face, large currents sucked at his boots dangling off the log. Charlie shouted, fright clinging to the sound of his voice. He clutched the boat to his chest, still flat against the bark, and breathed heavily, ignoring the cold, clammy clothes sticking to his body. He shut his eyes, scrunching his nose against the wet claws of the river, teasing him, threatening him.

The note lay on the oak table in the kitchen. Grandma hummed at the stove, making breakfast; pancakes. It was the smell that brought Charlie down from his bedroom. “Is Mum and Dad home yet? He asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Not yet, but they left a note for you,” Grandma replied. Charlie picked up the blue-lined photograph paper, folded into the shape of a sailboat. He grinned as he unfolded it, revealing Mum’s scrawling writing in blue ink. ‘It’s only a one-night trip to the city’ Charlie read the note in her smooth, soft voice. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow, Love You. P.S why not try and give this a sail?’’ Charlie smiled, refolded the paper into a boat, and placed it in his shirt pocket sitting right above his heart.

I really and thoroughly enjoyed your style in this. I have a thing for the kind of rhythm this particular style has. Quite good for something that unfolded for no particular reason. I think if you really want to make it better, go through and lengthen it a bit, because it gets a bit muddled and confusing with how quickly it goes. In general, though, I really did enjoy it.

Hayden wrote: "I really and thoroughly enjoyed your style in this. I have a thing for the kind of rhythm this particular style has. Quite good for something that unfolded for no particular reason. I think if you ..."

Thanks so much! The length is short because I was considering using it as my submission to a creative magazine I'm an editor for.. Thats why I wanted feedback, because I'm not sure I want it out there or not.